The last morning

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The last morning yoga.  Child pose. Downward-facing dog. Warrior I and II. Eagle. Tree pose. Side bends. Waves crashing and the blinding sun and my own breath.

Coffee afterwards, with Karen and Lenka, we sit in the shade in the Italian place. Talk of childhood under communism, of war preparations, rehearsing bomb scares, fitting of gas masks.

She smokes slowly; pilot sunglasses cover her beautiful greenish eyes. She pulls out of her bag the dress a friend gave her; golden, Charleston-style.

Not her look; holds it up against me, as if we were already friends, she watches me intently, we agree that the color suits neither her nor me, I touch her golden arm.

Later, I leave them there, she is lazy, the final swim. Short white dress, flip-flops, bikini pants, the beach only a few steps away. The now familiar burn of hot sand, I strip off the dress, wade into the chilly green water. Exhale, submerge my shoulders, suddenly afloat, moving, pushing my hands through the water. Trying to store the sensation, the cliffs, the birds, the ocean.

Standing silently while the wind dries me off a little. Sensing the sand with the sole of each foot. The soul.

 

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